Friday, 8 August 2014

Wandering through hollow lands.

I’m looking fairly foolish, I’m all alone in the middle of
nowhere with a big white feather in my hat and my fingers purple with
blackberry juice.

Robyn got a couple of days of lousy work and is worn out
while I’m trying to cope with the un-copable and losing.

So in the evening I stole an hour or two and went out to
Staines Moor on my own. It isn’t a moor at all, more like a marsh which dries
out in the summer. I only discovered it a couple of weeks ago; when I’m ill
again I’ll write it up properly, it’s got an interesting history.

Anyway, here it is;

On one side is a reservoir, then on the other is the Staines
Bypass and then there’s the M25 motorway. It’s a forgotten piece of country in
an urban mess.

This is the river Colne which wanders through the meadow,
flooding in the winter. It flows from beyond Uxbridge over gravel so it's clear and bright; there are streams of weed swaying in the current and timid fish hiding in the shadows.

The swans have a couple of kids from this spring and where
they were grooming on the river bank – that’s where my white feather came from.

The grass is almost waist high now, brown from the August sun. Every
now and again my steps disturb waterfowl who fly up angrily as I pass.

I walked to the far end of the moor and over to the motorway
where there is a deserted railway line overgrown with trees and brambles.

The blackberries are ripe, sweet from the August sun and so ripe they pick themselves. That's where my purple fingers come from.

The Song of
Wandering Aengus

by W. B. Yeats

I went out
to the hazel wood,

Because a
fire was in my head,

And cut and
peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked
a berry to a thread;

And when
white moths were on the wing,

And
moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped
the berry in a stream

And caught
a little silver trout.

When I had
laid it on the floor

I went to
blow the fire a-flame,

But
something rustled on the floor,

And someone
called me by my name:

It had
become a glimmering girl

With apple
blossom in her hair

Who called
me by my name and ran

And faded
through the brightening air.

Though I am
old with wandering

Through
hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find
out where she has gone,

And kiss
her lips and take her hands;

And walk
among long dappled grass,

And pluck
till time and times are done,

The silver
apples of the moon,

The golden
apples of the sun.

It’s an early summer; these are elderberries which normally
ripen in September.

And there is a feel of September in the air, as though summer
is already over.